


Star Wars: The Office Awakens

by YourShadow



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Do not take this fic as seriously as it takes itself, Inanimate Objects AU, Kylo as a Lamp, Other, crack!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6503620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourShadow/pseuds/YourShadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inanimate objects au crack!fic where Kylo Ren is a desk lamp.</p><p>Inspired by a joke conversation with friends where I told them about the Supernatural fic where they're all chickens and the Sherlock fic where they're scorpions. I legit love these fics fight me. (I'll try to link them if I can find them)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Wars: The Office Awakens

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Where Is My Food? (Sherlock/John, Scorpion Universe)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/949441) by [buttsnax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax). 
  * Inspired by [Roost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923348) by [almaasi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi). 



> Blame [this post](http://titaniumshadow.tumblr.com/post/142473299122/titaniumshadow-guys-this-is-very-important-of) for what you are about to read.

In a galaxy far, far away, filled with darkness and bright stars to illuminate the the vast expanse of space, there was a ship. In that ship, as wide as an ocean and long as the sky of a distant planet, there was a room. In that room, spacious and quaint for an officer’s quarters, there was a [desk](http://ep.yimg.com/ay/eca/mahogany-traditional-desk-15.jpg). On that desk, made of smooth mahogany and with naught a scratch on it, stood a [lamp](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fcdn3.volusion.com%2Feuhfr.xvuyx%2Fv%2Fvspfiles%2Fphotos%2FR1-2-7-A21072DB-2.jpg%3F1370433715&t=YmNiMjQ0ODFjMTFkY2Q0ODJhMWU0MDUyZTY3NGFiNWZlMzNkNDJkOSxPY0FhdDdhbA%3D%3D).

The lamp’s elegant tilt and curve accentuated the melancholy atmosphere surrounding the dim light emanating from the opening. It stared down at the desk longingly, the light from its bulb gently caressing the granite top it was placed upon. Never has a lamp looked so forlorn as this moment, bending over in an attempt to get closer to the desk, restricted by its own limber form and mechanics.

A [fountain pen](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.stonemarketing.com%2Fimages%2Flightbox%2FPack-Fond-Blanc-PLUME-SIRIU.jpg&t=OTY2NGIzZTg4MzAzMGE3YWZkNDgwNzNhMmMwMWVkY2FiNTUxNWU3NyxPY0FhdDdhbA%3D%3D), placed neatly beside a stack of documents, mocked the lamp’s attempts of getting closer to the desk. _You would no more touch the outer reaches of space than you would this desk, so quit trying_ , the pointed tip declared haughtily.

 _But I want to show my affection, my admiration, for what has been holding me up so long_ , the lamp mourned, tilting ever so slightly lower. The hinges at its apex creaked, showing the lamp’s limitations, pointing out its faults for the universe to hear.

Well, just the room in a ship floating around in space.

Across from the pen, a [stapler ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fencrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com%2Fimages%3Fq%3Dtbn%3AANd9GcQgBQQ54XnJUIzBuvBm6QuHvQzEazpXBlwAXBgW-x6wT-KGp7Q7Yg&t=YmU0ZWRlODNiZjlkN2FkMTc4NTg5ODNkYWMxZTk1YjZiNGFkNTM4YyxPY0FhdDdhbA%3D%3D)sat regally on the edge of the mahogany desk. Its metallic finish often glinted under the light of the lamp, but today it appeared to blend into the matte black tip. _Enough Huxen, Kylamp is clearly distraught at its failure to reach its goal,_ the stapler declared in the darkness.

If a pen could raise its nose in disdain, that is what Huxen would do at the stapler’s statement. But since it was a mere tool, an object in the hands of another, it could only rely on its owner for movement. Instead, it radiated stiffness through its rigid form. _I am better than you_ , the fountain pen always seemed to declare with its golden, sharp tip and sleek form. The galaxy was emblazoned onto its black body. When the owner picked up this pen, they held all of space and time in their hand.

Therefore, Huxen felt overly important, deeming itself the most useful tool upon the workstation. Possibly upon the entire ship, it sometimes boasted. But the stapler never paid it any mind, although sometimes indulged it for its own sake. The lamp, however, was too wrapped up in its own small world that it barely registered the pompousness of the pen.

Kylamp continued gazing upon the dark, shiny surface of the desk. It was placed here out of fear that the heat from its bare bulb would ruin the fine mahogany wood, and the lamp was grateful for that. The lamp wouldn’t dare harm any part of this sacred conduit of power. Whoever sat at this desk was important, powerful, a ruler of galaxies. Or at least worked for the ruler of the galaxy. The utensils were quite unaware of their owner’s distinction, just that they were an officer who was afforded stately rooms and an even statelier desk with which to work from.

 _Kylamp, staring is rude_ , the stapler reminded the lamp gently, attempting to nudge the light source out of its sad reverie.

The lamp tilted its head toward the stapler slightly, _Forgive me, Phaspler, I did not mean to offend,_ it whispered in a kind of dim horror, as dim as its glow.

 _Don’t apologize to me_ , Phaspler chided softly, _apologize to the one you were staring at_. The stapler felt its own weight atop the desk, grateful for the rubber padding between its sharp bottom and the smooth wood. Scratching any part of this desk would seem a grave offense, to none more than Kylamp, who admired it so much that it worried every day when the owner left the light on, even on a dim setting as it was now.

Kylamp turned back to stare at the desk with a reprehensible expression, staying silent for a moment. _I am sorry, oh grand one, for casting such harsh light upon your countenance._ The apology was given in a formal tone of such sorrow, one would think it was said at a funeral.

But objects do not have funerals. They are used, sometimes even abused, and when they wear out their purpose or become too old to keep up, they are thrown aside or taken apart to serve a new purpose, combined with other foreign pieces and mashed together like a monster.

 _Oh for goodness’ sake, stop moping and acting like a scorned child_ , the pen mocked the lamp once again. The pen’s tone implied the lamp’s behavior was ludicrous and uncouth. It had little patience for the lamp most of the time, and did not believe in mercy or kindness to those it deemed unworthy of receiving such honors.

 _It has not spoken to me in several days, I fear I have angered or offended it with my actions_ , the lamp explained pathetically, turning now to face the pen. _In my own anger I may have scorched it with the heat from my light. I may have hurt something that is so precious to me, I could not bear to see it replaced_.

The pen wanted to roll over to the lamp and forcefully push it over the edge of the desk, thereby watching it smash against the floor. Huxen would take great delight in seeing the lamp as several pieces scattered about on the hard surface. However, the pen knew it was not strong enough to fulfill this purpose, nor could it make itself roll unless its owner did so or something bumped against the desk at the right angle. So it would have to be content staying in place, glaring at the lamp as only a pen could do.

 _You are my world_ , Kylamp proclaimed to the desk.

 _I am merely the support to hold you up_ , the desk finally answered in an old, weary way. _Do not place such a burden onto me that I cannot bear the weight of it._

The lamp was startled, hinges creaking as it straightened a bit. _Am I too heavy for you?_ the lamp asked fearfully.

 _No, I was not speaking of your physical weight. You’re putting too much faith into something that is beyond your control. If your expectations of me are too high and I fail, you will be crushed under the weight as well._ The mahogany desk spoke with a reverence that knew first-hand of the fate it spoke of, as if it had undergone the same tribulations in the past when it was but a sapling growing in a forest.

Before the mahogany wood was cut from its tree, and the granite stone dug out from a quarry, and the two parts were carved and sanded down together, the components to this desk were something else altogether. Combining the lifeforce of two such different things must have also combined experiences.

The lamp contemplated these things, letting the desk’s advice sink in. The object Kylamp rested upon was far older and wiser than it–like the grandfather to their group of squabbling children–so the lamp would do well to take its advice, as but a youngling. As a modern model, it still had a lot to learn about the universe.

 _Teach me how to become like you. Show me your ways, please,_ Kylamp pleaded. The lamp could feel the irritation wafting off of the fountain pen lying nearby, seething quietly as the two objects carried on their conversation. The stapler was silent out of respect–or perhaps boredom, it was always hard to tell what that particular tool was thinking.

 _It is impossible for a lamp to become a desk_ , the desk replied resolutely. _I’m afraid there is nothing I can teach you._ There was a note of finality in the words, proclaiming the end of their discussion.

The lamp sunk lower, slumping forward and nearly falling over in its sorrowful state. If a lamp could weep, even tears of electricity, Kylamp would flood the room.

 _Quit wallowing and get over yourself already_ , the fountain pen grumbled, as if annoyed by such a show the lamp was putting on. _There’s no use trying to be something else. Stop trying to be what you **aren’t** and start trying to be what you **are**_ , Huxen advised begrudgingly. In fact, the pen was waiting for a chance to drop this piece of molten gold onto paper for a while now, but this was as good a time as ever to offer its wisdom.

 _Huxen is right, and for once I have to agree_ , Phaspler added. The stapler, all shining silver and dark black, used for stabbing into several pieces of paper and locking them in place, was certainly the tool that held the group together. It was normally the deciding factor when the lamp and pen got into an argument, and kept the desk organized with its menacing yet reassuring presence.

After a moment of moping, head hung low in reverence for a lost cause, the lamp slowly began to ease itself up into a high position. _If I am to remain only as a lamp, then I shall become the best lamp there ever was!_ the lamp declared, wishing it could brighten the dimness of its bulb–but alas, it could only minutely control the hinges that allowed it to bend and straighten, and occasionally hop around (but it didn’t want to risk scratching or denting the desk, so it rarely hopped).

 _Stop being so dramatic, you’re embarrassing yourself,_ the pen groused. As a pen in high favor of those who used pens, Huxen simply could not imagine being lowly enough to seek improvement. The only thing that would make the pen better would be if it could fly across the page on its own, connected to the writer through telepathy or telekinesis or some such other nonsense that was completely impossible.

Unless the writer was a force-user, then they could easily make Huxen glide. The pen was pleased to dream about being under the control of a capable force-user, swishing through the air and not suffocated by the hands that normally clutched it. So pleased, in fact, that it missed the stapler’s admonishment and ignored the lamp’s foolish talk of how to become the greatest lamp in the universe to impress the old desk beneath it.

But it was prepared and at attention once the owner of the room entered. All of the objects returned to their silence and feigned ignorance to their purpose in the galaxy as their owner sat down in the plush office chair and rested hard elbows against the top of the desk. After an exhale that could have been a sigh of relief or a sigh of defeat–it was so difficult for the tools to read human emotions, there were just too many nuances and so many emotions being rendered at the same time they couldn’t keep up–the owner picked up a document from the stack and placed it in the center of the desk, and then picked up Huxen to begin spilling ink onto the page.

The owner was completely unaware of the life-altering events which took place just moments before, even as it turned the light up on the lamp in order to better see the letters on the pages. It was possible the owner would never know the true, full story of each object within the room.

But the tools didn’t care, because they were just office utensils and did not have as many emotions as humans did to have an existential crisis over whether one human acknowledged their usefulness or role.

**Author's Note:**

> I am prepared to write detailed notes for every little thing about this insane work of fanfiction if anyone wants to know all of the references I threw in and what everything means.


End file.
